VII

FACT AND FICTION

N. B.—­These two stories are founded on fact; but the personal allusions are fictitious.  As regards public events, they are historically accurate.—­G.  W. E. R.

I

A FORGOTTEN PANIC

Friday, the 13th of September, 1867, was the last day of the Harrow holidays, and I was returning to the Hill from a visit to some friends in Scotland.  During the first part of the journey I was alone in the carriage, occupied with an unlearnt holiday task; but at Carlisle I acquired a fellow-traveller.  He jumped into the carriage just as the train was beginning to move, and to the porter who breathlessly enquired about his luggage he shouted, “This is all,” and flung a small leathern case on to the seat.  As he settled himself into his plate, his eye fell upon the pile of baggage which I had bribed the station-master to establish in my corner of the carriage—­a portmanteau, a hat-box, a rug wrapped round an umbrella, and one or two smaller parcels—­all legibly labelled

  G. W. E. RUSSELL,
    Woodside,
      Harrow-on-the-Hill.

After a glance at my property, the stranger turned to me and exclaimed:  “When you have travelled as much as I have, young sir, you will know that, the less the luggage, the greater the ease.”  Youth, I think, as a rule resents overtures from strangers, but there was something in my fellow-traveller’s address so pleasant as to disarm resentment.  His voice, his smile, his appearance, were alike prepossessing.  He drew from his pocket the Daily News, in those days a famous organ for foreign intelligence, and, as he composed himself to read, I had a full opportunity of studying his appearance.  He seemed to be somewhere between thirty and forty, of the middle height, lean and sinewy, and, as his jump into the train had shown, as lissom as a cat.  His skin was so much tanned that it was difficult to guess his natural complexion; but his closely cropped hair was jet-black, and his clean-shaven face showed the roots of a very dark beard.  In those days it was fashionable to wear one’s hair rather long, and to cultivate whiskers and a moustache.  Priests and actors were the only people who shaved clean, and I decided in my mind that my friend was an actor.  Presently he laid down his paper, and, turning to me with that grave courtesy which when one is very young one appreciates, he said:  “I hope, sir, that my abrupt entry did not disturb you.  I had a rush for it, and nearly lost my train as it was.  And I hope what I said about luggage did not seem impertinent.  I was only thinking that, if I had been obliged to look after portmanteaus, I should probably still be on the platform at Carlisle.”  I hastened to say, with my best air, that I had not been the least offended, and rather apologized for my own encumbrances